Learning to Cope
by Consultinghobbitlock
Summary: What if Sherlock wasn't real? What if everything that had happened was all just a figment of John's imagination? A way for him to cope?. Rated T for some language and possible content later. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

Ok so here is the first chapter. This will probably include quite a bit of Johnlock friendship, and possibly later on, relationship. This is my first chapter long fic, so please review so I can improve. Thanks so much. I will hopefully be updating at least once a week, most likely over the weekends.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. All rights go to BBC, or any other respective owners.

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Learning to Cope

I'm at a loss. It was all so real, so genuine, how could it have been nothing more than a dream? Everything, everyone, all just cruel figments of my messed up head. I thought I was getting better, coping, but now everything has crashed down around me and I'm at a loss.

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"Sherlock, your phone!" I called from the shower as the phone buzzed loudly. It was somewhere in the bathroom, though I couldn't quite figure where. I waited for a response but it was pointless, he was caught up in some new experiment. I quickly turned off the water and wrapped my towel around my hips, climbing out in search of the phone. I finally found it, buzzing away, buried under a pile of dirty clothes. I picked it up and read the text. It was Lestrade, seemed like there was some new case that he needed us for. Sherlock would be happy, he'd been cooped up here the past week, with nothing but old experiments to work on. Only today had he been able to start on something new. I shrugged out of my towel and into my robe and headed into the kitchen to tell Sherlock about the case.

He was sitting at the counter, eyes closed, obviously shifting through his mind palace. I knew he would just be a pain in the ass the rest of the day if I interrupted him so I went on into the living room and turned on the telly. After about ten minutes I heard him get up and come walk behind me and flop onto the couch. I just barely turned my head to talk to him.

"That was Lestrade earlier. Two bodies were found at The Globe. He needs you there as soon as possible." I waited for a response.

He stared at the ceiling for a while until he finally murmured. "Dull."

"I knew you'd say that." I looked down and replied to Lestrade's most recent text;

"I know that, but at least ask."

"I told you so. - JW"

I resumed watching the telly until the phone buzzed again with Lestrade's final attempt.

"Tell him this then…" I looked up with a smirk.

"How about this? The bodies were found on the stage, laid out in full costume in a replica of the death scene from Romeo and Juliet."

His eyes left the ceiling and darted toward me, a glimmer of curiosity showing through.

I smiled and texted Lestrade.

"Got him. -JW"

Four hours later we were leaving The Globe and Sherlock was in an even worse mood.

"Obvious." he snarled as he hailed a cab. "Just two kids, fell for each other. The girl was depressed and never noticed that the boy was psycotic. No challenge. Dull."

"Sherlock please, they were just kids." I snapped.

"I don't hold sympathy for the delusioned."

I decided it was better to move onto a new subject. I remembered the thing about the phone this morning, it seemed like as good a topic as any.

"Sherlock, I found your mobile hidden under a load of dirty clothes this morning, do I want to know?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "It was being loud last night. I was about to flush it but I thought that might upset you and I really didn't want to deal with that, so I shoved it under the clothes. I hoped it might have gotten thrown into the washer."

I looked over at him. He was holding the phone in his hands, twirling it, staring at it, just about boring holes into it. I couldn't help but laugh a little. He looked so frustrated, by such a small thing. His head jerked up as he heard me laughing and I stifled the sound. At first he seemed annoyed but slowly a smile crept across his face and we both began to laugh. It felt good. We needed it.

Once we had quited down he looked at me and asked "How about we go out for dinner tonight?"

I agreed and we headed to Angelo's.

We sat at our table and I ordered. As usual, Sherlock didn't get anything. I had asked him once about the almost complete lack of eating, soon after we met. He had said something about digestion taking energy away from work when he was on a case and that he usually felt no need. In the time that I had known him I could count on two hands the times I had actually seen him eat. I had begun to worry about his health but he didn't seem to be losing weight or anything so I just added it to the list of the many Sherlockisms I had discovered.

That's what Sherlock is after all, what made him… him: his quirks. I mean for God sake's the man is a walking anomally. He walks around this city like he knows just how it clicks, which he does. He gives off this air of superiority around other people, like he is on another level. Which again, he is. He seldom eats or sleeps, just works, runs, thinks, all the time, an ever wound up toy, bumping into things and bouncing right back, off looking for new adventures, distractions. But that's just the thing. I see all of that, just like everyone else, but I also see the pure essence of the human heart and spirit. When he plays that damned violin at three in the morning, the notes dripping with longing and passion. When he throws himself onto the couch after a long case and sleeps for days. When he looks at Mrs. Hudson with the gentlest eyes I have ever even imagined. It's those moments when I see just how human, how vulnerable, he is. He does everything that I could ever dream of doing, and so much more. That's why we get along so well. You've got me; ordinary, simple John Watson, wanting to do so much, just not quite sure how. And then you've got him; extraordinary Sherlock Holmes who doesn't really know what he wants so he just does everything, not caring how people see him. In that way I guess, we complete each other, we fill the gaps that the other never really knew were there, or just never cared to address.

I continued to eat as Sherlock babbled on about some experiment. I was too tired to really listen, too absorbed in my own thoughts. That is until I heard him say something about the case from earlier that day.

"I mean really John, are all children so dim-witted as to let themselves get dragged into that? Let a childish, romantic, fantasy trick you just so you can feel… I don't know." He finished talking and turned his gaze away from his hands, which were fiddling with the napkin in front of him, and looked at me. "I mean, did you… were ever tricked so thoroughly by someone because you wanted it to be true? Because you needed something so unrealistic, you created it for yourself, let yourself fall into a lie?"

The look on Sherlock's face worried me. I stopped eating at stared back at the man across from me. My best friend. I had never seen this side of him. He looked confused, anxious, like there was some hidden truth that just kept avoiding his grasp. I looked at him for a second longer and then glanced out the window, watching the anonymous cars and people pass by. People so close, but so terrifyingly distant, in parallel worlds to the one where Sherlock and I sat now. I thought about what Sherlock had said, had asked, and I knew the answer wholeheartedly.

"No Sherlock, I wouldn't fall for that. Maybe I might have years ago but not now. I've been around you to long. The world is a different place through my eyes now. No, I know what's real. There's no doubt in my mind."

My answer seemed to shock him. His eyes grew wide for just a split second before they resumed their normal, calculating gleam. "Yes of course" he mumbled. "Of course." his eyes fell back to the napkin, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the cloth.

I couldn't help but be a little concerned still. He was acting so strange, even for him. No, especially for him. He was being thoughtful and almost philosophical it seemed. In public nontheless. Yes he got this way every now and then, but that was always at home, when it was just the two of us. He never talked like this when we were out. I voiced my concern, hoping that the strangeness of his mode might allow me to get a reasonable answer. "Are you alright Sherlock? You seem a little… perturbed."

His posture changed immediately. His hands flew into the pockets of his coat and he leaned back in his seat, his eyes piercing my concern. "Yes of course John. I just got distracted that's all. Are you done?" He motioned toward the empty plate in front of me.

'Oh. Well, yes.' I stammered, still slightly taken aback by the sudden change back to his normal demeanor.

"Well then, we best get back to Baker Street. I still have my experiments to finish."

He stood and buttoned his coat and waited for me to stand. I did so and we walked on out into the cold, London, night air. He hailed a cab and we rode home in silence. When we reached 221 B, Sherlock bolted from the cab and through the door, up the stairs to the flat. When I arrived he was not in the kitchen like I expected but sitting on the couch, clutching what appeared to be a notebook, in his hands. His eyes were closed. He must be off in his palace again. I let him be and headed on up to my bedroom. It had been a long day and I was more than ready for a good night's sleep. But as I lay there in bed, slowly drifting off, I couldn't help but wonder… where had I seen that notebook before?

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Again, thanks so much for reading and please review.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello. Here is chapter two, sorry that it took a little longer than expected, I've been at the beach this week, and sick as well. So here goes the next part. I hope you all enjoy.

Disclaimer: Again, I do not own any of these characters, all rights go to their respective owners.

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My sleep is a restless one, as it seems to be of late. I toss and turn as violent dreams batter my subconscious. Bombs going off, screaming, the scorching heat of a bright sun overhead. Then come the other dreams, the quieter dreams. But yet for some reason even these remain painful, and I have become thankful for their haziness. These dreams are usually just flashes of images. Harry standing over me, white walled rooms, black suits, and a small leather notebook. Notebook, where have I seen that notebook?

The dreams fade and I begin to float back into consciouness. My bed is drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted from my night time battles. I push myself up and hang my legs over the side of the bed. My head falls to my hands as I rub my eyes, attempting to erase the imprints left by the dreams from them. My hands run through my hair as I start to smell it. I sniff the air for a second to be sure. Yep, that is most definitely smoke. I bolt up from the bed, not even bothering to throw my dressing gown on, running into the hall with just my pants on. I run down the stairs and skidded to a halt in the kitchen doorway. There, behind the kitchen table, which was itself, in a worse state than usual, was Sherlock. His hair was ruffled and patches of his skin were darkened by soot.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" I yell as I rush around the table to start cleaning up. I look him over once to make sure he is fine. He only glowers down and me and mutters, "Bored." Then he stalks off to the living room and curls up on the couch.

I am washing off the table and the rest of the equipment, being careful not to cause any more reactions from the chemicals he has splayed around, when he calls from the couch, "Oh, and John. You will be needing some more of your hair products, I assume." and then he returns to his silence. I can't help but chuckle. I finish cleaning and walk to the living room, sitting in my chair.

"Sherlock. If you are this bored, why not go to the hospital, go see Molly. I'm sure there would be plenty to do around there, and you wouldn't run the risk of getting scorch marks on the ceiling. Mrs. Hudson is still upset about the last time." I say as I reach over and pick up my computer from the coffee table beside me. I open it up and navigate to the blog, checking for any new comments or messages. There are none. As I close it, Sherlock mumbles a response that has to do with that scenario involving getting dressed. I chuckle and procede to get up.

"Well, Sarah needs me at the surgery for a little while, so I should be back in a few hours." I shrug on my coat and headed to the door. Sherlock just waveds his hand as I leave.

The surgery was unusually busy. Most of the patients were children. Sick, confused children. You know how it is with kids. They begin to think there are sicker than they are, so you console them, tell them they will be fine. Most of the time that's true, but sometimes there's that one kid who you just don't know. They're in and out of hospitals, surgeries, and they start to get used to it, the routine of it just all slips by. But today was a good day. Just regular check ups, colds, that sort of thing. After everything had settled down, Sarah said it was fine if I headed on home. I nodded a goodbye and headed out into the street to catch a cab back to Baker street.

When I walked into the flat, Sherlock was still on the couch, exactly where he had been when I left.

"Sherlock, have you even moved while I've been gone?" I aksed. He turned his faced towards me, "You left?" I just rolled my eyes and headed to the kitchen to get something to eat. "Yes Sherlock, I told you, the surgery." I called as I opened the door, cautiously. Good, no heads today. The fridge was mostly empty. I ended up grabbing the jar of jam and just fixing some toast. I remembered what Sherlock had said this morning about hair products and decided it may be best to run to the store later. When my toast was ready I tossed it onto a plate and headed back into the living room. Sherlock was sitting up now on the couch so I sat beside him and picking up the clicker, turned to the news. We sat in silence for a while, as I ate and the news drooned on. Finally when I was done, I muted the telly and turned to Sherlock. "Ok Sherlock, I'm gonna head to the store and get some things that we need and then when I get back how about we head over to Bart's?" He looked up at me and nodded "Fine, I have a few things I could run through the mass spec anyway." He then pulled his knees up below his chin and rested his head on them, still looking at me. I stared back for a moment and then got up and took my plate to the kitchen. I was headed out the door as I heard Sherlock call, "Oh and John, get some milk."

Milk. Milk, dirt, spoons, white, blood, blue. Milk. Images. Flashes, like my dreams crashing through my brain. I slumped in the doorway as my knees buckled. Sherlock was at my side in a second.

"John! John, are you alright?" His voice had an air of panic that I so seldom heard from him. I pushed myself back up, holding my head.

"I… I'm fine, just got a bad headache all the sudden. I'll just take something real quick, before I go." I pulled away from him and slowly moved to the bathroom, where I poured out a couple of pain killers. I downed them quickly and then headed out to leave. Sherlock still looked worried. "I'm fine." I assured him. "I'll be back soon. Don't blow up the house while I'm gone." and then I was down the stairs and out the door.

I rushed to the store and got everything we needed and I was home as soon as possible. My head still ached a little but I didn't let it show. If there was one thing I knew how to do it was this: hide pain.

I got home and put away the milk and other groceries. Then I went to check on Sherlock. He was sitting at the table on his computer. He raised his head as I walked in and closed the screen. "Bart's then?" he asked. I nodded and he stood up and pulled on his coat and scarf. I waited in the door way and when he was ready we went to get a cab.

Once we got to Bart's Sherlock made a beeline to Molly's lab. He burst through the door, only nodding a hello. I followed close behind him, walking over to Molly and giving her a quick hug and peck on the cheek. "Evening Molly, sorry I didn't call to say we were coming. He's been restless all day and I needed to get him out before he caused any serious damage."

Molly blushed and stumbled out, "Oh, it's fine John, really. I was actually just about to leave anyway. I have a date tonight." Her slight body puffed up, proud, as she said this.

"Oh, really." I said. "With whom?"

"His name's Jim, he works in IT." She smiles up at me and turns to see if Sherlock showed any reaction. He doesn't of course. Molly shakes her head and pulls on her coat, swinging her bag across her shoulder. I wave goodbye as she walks out and head over to sit beside Sherlock. He was intent on the microscope in front of him, looking behind him every so often at the mass spec.

We stayed at Bart's for an hour or so. I texted Lestrade about some paper work for a while, even talked to Mycroft for a moment. My shoulder had started to ache and I was dozing off, when Sherlock placed his hand on my neck.

"Come on John, lets go home." He said softly. He was unusually gentle today. I would have said something to him but I just hurt all over. My head, my shoulder. I just needed to sleep.

We headed home and I went on to bed. Sherlock helped me to my room and lingered for just a moment before shutting the door on his way out. I laid in bed for a while. It was the cliché torture of being so immensely tired but unable to fall asleep. I stared at the ceiling, until finally my eyes closed and my mind quieted.

I opened my eyes slowly, dreading what I knew I would see. Sure enough, there was Harry standing over me, a glass of water and cup of medicine in her hand.

"Morning John." She said, so soft I could barely hear her. I pushed myself up and looked around. There I was: Harry's house. My room for the time being. Empty and quiet. How it should be, I didn't want to be here, I wanted to be asleep again. Asleep was good. When I was asleep I could remember everything. When I was asleep I seldom hurt. When I was asleep I could get out of bed, go on adventures. But most of all when I was asleep, all of them: Sherlock, Molly, Lestrade, even Anderson and Sally, they were alive. Here, 'reality', I was alone, with only that stupid leather journal to live my fantasy in. But soon I would forget this stupid reality. Soon, I forgot everything. Everything but the dreams.


End file.
